


between you and me and infidelity

by mbege



Series: between you and me and infidelity [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, bellamy is married to clarke but cheating on her with murphy, but thats life, clarke isn't as straight as she makes herself out to be, everyone's a bit gay, some people end up happy and others don't, who ends up happy? who knows?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbege/pseuds/mbege
Summary: in an alternate universe - one where bellamy was loyal, where clarke knew better than to hope for a happy ending in a loveless marriage, where murphy found love in someone who could put him first - they could all have gotten the love-filled happy endings they deserved.but this isn't that kind of story.





	1. i know i'm not the only one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is how the story begins
> 
> -
> 
> title from "i'm not the only one" by sam smith

If she imagines hard enough, Clarke can put herself back into the night that they met.

She remembers the smell of sweat and marijuana in the tightly-packed venue, everyone bouncing and dancing and twerking to the electrifying beat. The artist was a saggy-jean-wearing, shirtless man who clutched a bottle of Hennessey with the showmanship of a woman with an expensive purse - feigned casualty but with a marked intention to make sure everyone saw it. He was an intensely popular local rapper whose name meant everything in the town surrounding Arcadia Western University but very little to a girl from the upside of Cape Cod.

At the tail end of her sophomore year, though, she felt like she was beginning to catch on to the local vibes, which was the reason she knew to drag her best friend, Raven, into the dank-smelling club with her on a perfectly good Tuesday night.

She remembers the burn of vodka at the back of her throat, courtesy of a pregame that involved plenty of shots and an overestimation of how much they had by way of chasers. But the two of them were still bouncing to the beat, dancing by themselves and, occasionally, on each other. It was _that _kind of night. In fact, she had her hands on Raven’s hips, laughing giddily as she grinded against the other girl when she first caught a glimpse of Bellamy Blake.

The crowd had forced him into a position crushed up against Raven’s other side, passing a glance down at the shitfaced young. His gaze was heated, but Clarke didn’t exactly blame him; after all, Raven was tantalizing in her teeny tiny crop top and even teenier tinier shorts. But something about his gaze was different than the rest of the blackout drunk boys who had spent the night "accidentally" slapping their asses and catching them by the hips, grinding into them half-hard as if _that _was the way to get their attention. 

Because all of them had felt like _boys, _immature and horny and handsy because they didn't know how else to be.

But him? He was a _man. _He didn't look pathetic and hyper. He looked _hungry. _

She wasn't sure what about that made her all hot and bothered, and what part of "hot and bothered" she decided was going to be rude, but hell, her last relationship had started before she was expected to mature past the little-girl style of insulting to flirt, so she couldn't be blamed. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she shouted to him over the overpowering boom of the speakers, followed by, "creep." when she knew she has his attention.

His gaze drifted up from Raven to Clarke and, despite knowing that's what she wanted the whole time, she was immediately struck with the blowback to her actions. She took a mental inventory of herself. She was wearing more than Raven, but less than she should be wearing when it was a chilly 57 degrees outside of the club. the leather minidress hugged the extra curves brought on by not quite enough time at the gym, but she wasn't ashamed of that. What gave her a little more pause was her hair. Half-up, half-down, and held up with an array of multicolored hair clips in the shape of butterflies that she had seen some girl wear at a punk show when she was, like, 16, and ordered several dozen in a weed-induced haze. She thought they were an edgy attachment to her otherwise simple ensemble, but under his scrutinizing gaze, they felt childish, and dumb. 

She angled her head to hide them, cocking her head in a way she hoped was more teasing than deceptive. Judging by his smirk, he fell for it. 

"You have a camera?" he asked, the sneer on his face hanging onto the edges of his voice despite having to yell over the music, "Because this is a picture I don't want to forget."

"Oh yeah, right here," she responded, pretending to shuffle in her purse, but only bringing out her middle finger.

And so the night went on: she teased, and he gave it out as well as he took it, and one by one, she pulled the clips out of her hair, and prayed that it looked like flirtation instead of evasion. 

And it seemed to work, until he had her back pressed against the graffiti-covered bathroom walls

He yanked lightly at her hair and pulled back completely. She looked up at him, eyes heavy but hoping he could see the silent question on her face. 

As a response, he held up a hand in between then, and pinched between his thumb and index finger was a bright pink butterfly clip. She could feel her eyes widen, and his face was filled with mirth as he leaned down until his lips brushed her ear.

"Missed one, princess," he whispered, voice somehow tantalizing and teasing before his mouth moved away to make light work of her neck, his ears falling deaf to her excuses and defences.

That moment, right there, was when she knew she had to have him.

Clarke should have known back then that a man with that kind of hunger, with such unchecked charisma and confidence was going to bring her to a rotten end. But who could blame her? She didn't exactly have a clean track record as far as men went. From dating Wells for nearly five years just because she felt _obligated _because he'd had a crush on her since they were still in diapers, to being Finn Collin's unwitting side chick while being best friends with his girlfriend, it was no surprise that Bellamy Blake would catch her eye. 

And it wasn't bad at first. They dated through college. When Raven and Clarke moved off campus and into an apartment, Bellamy followed, and in all honesty he should have been paying some sort of rent considering how many nights he spent with them. Raven always referred to the pair them as "the endgame couple", because even when Bellamy broke up with Clarke to date Gina, or when Clarke tried to take a break "to focus on herself", it was like everyone around them knew that they were the place that each other was always going to end up. 

It was on nights like today, as Clarke sat on_ their _couch in _their _living room, staring up at eight years worth of vacation pictures, wedding portraits, and knickknacks they'd acquired together, that she wondered exactly when they'd gone wrong.

She thinks, sometimes, that it started when she'd gotten the job at Reginald Jaha Memorial Hospital. Though she worked essentially the same job, the shifts at Jaha Memorial were much more intense than at the small regional hospital she'd worked at just outside the East Polis suburbs. There, it had mostly been locals shifting in and out for menial procedures. the lack of resources meant that major procedures and real emergencies always went to the better-stocked and better-staffed Jaha Memorial. There wasn't much picking up extra shifts, like at her new job, and quiet nights made for plenty of time to have her husband come visit between teaching classes at the local state school. At her old job, she'd always been able to take holidays off, and commit to date nights. There was none of this sleeping at the hospital, and watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve on the TV in the ER, and rescheduling and rescheduling and rescheduling date night until it almost wasn't worth it to go anymore because the movie they'd wanted to see was out of the theater by now. 

She couldn't bring herself to regret her transfer, though, even on days like these when she convinced herself that her job was the root cause of her marital problems. She'd studied medicine so she could help people, and the pounding adrenaline of assisting with the major surgeries that only Jaha Memorial could provide her with was all she wanted. 

_Maybe that's it_, she mused. _I value my job more than my marriage. Maybe that's why my husband doesn't seem to value our marriage at all. _

Clarke Griffin was many things. Maybe a bit entitled, maybe self-sacrificing to a fault. Maybe a bit of a workaholic. But she wasn't a fool. There was only so many times she could come home from a long shift, approaching 2 AM, and find their bed empty before she knew. There was only so many "additional office hours" Bellamy added to his schedule before she figured it out. 

Clarke had been cheated on before. She knew what it felt like. 

The first time she'd seen a text come across Bellamy's phone from "Pizza Hut", asking what time they were meeting tomorrow, she barely had time to feel grief before she felt anger. When he came back into the living room, freshly popped popcorn in hand, swiping up his phone and settling down against her once more as Carrie White murdered everyone in her path, she stared intently at him, trying to catch something in his face, as if she could catch something in thee sharp angle of his cheekbone of the constellations of freckles across his face would tell her what she already suspected.

But then he turned to her, brow furrowed. "What?" he asked, "Do I have something on my face?"

Her words died in her throat. "Nothing," she responded, because in truth, nothing on his face blatantly said _I'm cheating on you, you naive bitch_, "I just like looking at you."

He laughed. Eight years, and she still loved his laugh as much as the first night he'd laughed when he pulled butterfly clips in her hair. 

She had two choices, really: she could confront him. She could tell him what she knew. But if she did that, she lost. She lost that smile. She lost all the wedding photos on the wall, and she lost eight years of happiness, and she lost that epic "endgame" love that Raven still teased her about.

Or, she could keep her mouth shut. He could keep his mistress, whatever history student he was fucking. She'd been the other woman with Finn, right? And it really hadn't been so bad, had it? Sure, there would always be a bridge between them that she couldn't cross, but with all the hours she was logging in the ER, she wouldn't even have to look at the bridge that much. Besides, with their contrasting schedules, it was only fair that Bellamy found some stupid other "Pizza Hut" woman to hold now that he could barely ever hold her. 

And so she held her tongue. She'd rather be happy with a caveat than sad and alone. 

The front door opened, and she turned from her place on the couch to watch her husband come through the door. He had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, almost burnt down to the filter.

He'd told her once that he'd never be a smoker.

She looked over to the clock on the wall. It was swiftly approaching eleven thirty, and Bellamy had finished tutoring at nine.

She didn't want to ask, but she couldn't help but ask, "Hey, where have you been?"

"Out," Bellamy replied simply, something vaguely accusatory in his tone, as if _Clarke _was the one blowing nicotine-flavored air into the empty space between them. 

She tried to make herself seem open, and unsuspecting. _Don't let him suspect that you suspect him. _She lifts her blanket off of her legs, a silent offer to join her. 

Something like relief flashed across his face as he joined her. _All clear._

"What're we watching?" He asked, gesturing at the TV.

"Nature documentary," Clarke responded. "Nat Geo has a special about the effects of climate change on Brazil." 

Bellamy hummed his approval, a deep sound the vibrated his chest where he pulled Clarke down to lean against it. Through his sternum, she can feel his heartbeat.

And this. This moment right here was worth it. Worth keeping her mouth shut.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins the beast! 
> 
> the first two chapters are going to be a little rough, its more about putting everyone where i need them to be for the real story to start. my bad.
> 
> also, this was originally started? sort of? with my murphamy one shot "love aint a three way street" and. its a monster I have no control over anymore. it was meant to be murphamy but its bellarke at the core, with murphamy being a big part and clexa thrown in. i'm not as sorry as i should be. i will say though, only one of those three couples ends up together. 
> 
> anyways. next up: murphamy meeting.


	2. you make me feel (like a teenager in love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> before you can continue the story of bellamy and clarke, you must know the story of bellamy and murphy.
> 
> alternatively: how it all began to fall apart.
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title from "teenager in love" by madison beer

In Bellamy's defence, he hadn't meant to be at the protest alone. 

Sometimes, on some of his more fucked-up nights, he convinces himself that in this way, his infidelity is really Clarke's fault. They were supposed to come together; that had been the plan when he first heard about the protest on someone's Instagram story.

Or, well, he was pretty sure it was someone's Instagram story. It's equally likely that he was tagged in some massive Facebook post, or that one of his student passed out flyers, or that it was mentioned in the staff lounge. He always had trouble recalling little details like that. It was a miracle he'd been able to get a PhD in history of all things, his brain an endless flow of dates and names of people who died hundreds of years ago, but he always seemed to be scraping together an anniversary gift for Clarke at the last minute because he forgot all about it until the week before. 

But it happened as it always did: Clarke was going to come, she really _was_, because this was a cause and event that was important to Bellamy and so it was important to her because that's what marriage is supposed to be about, after all, but she had just moved to a bigger, better hospital, and was desperately trying to connect with her newfound co-workers through endless nights out (it didn't help that Raven, her party-girl college best friend also worked there, and was Clarke's key into the social scene) and covering the shift of anyone who asked, and so on the day in question she was once again off doing some fancy surgery while Bellamy carried the sign they made together, alone. 

It's not that Bellamy was bitter, really. This was what she wanted. This was a partnership. He couldn't fault her for chasing her dreams. It just wouldn't kill her to show up for his.

It was absolutely sweltering out, the humid August air clinging to his skin and making him feel a bit sticky all over. His curls plastered themselves against his forehead with sweat, and he was immensely thankful that Clarke had laid out a breathable linen shirt for him to wear, because the cotton one he'd picked for himself would be clinging to his body. Nonetheless, adrenaline pumped through his veins as he waded through the crowd of people angrily proclaiming that teachers deserved to be paid like doctors, dammit. 

That was when he first spotted Jonathan Murphy. 

He was standing towards the back, his brown hair held back by a bright red bandana, the clever fucker, and the top he wore was more hole than shirt. He was accompanied by two or three other young men (Bellamy wasn't quite sure how old they all were - definitely college students at the youngest, but the one closest to bandana boy had one of those faces that could confidently pass for 18 or 28), but none of the others carried the same haughty, assured faces, the "fuck with me" posture that could have belonged to Bellamy, years and years ago, when he was still young and angry.

The anger never fades. Just the youth.

That wasn't what drew Bellamy in the younger man's direction, though. It wasn't the quasi-bored look in his eyes, either, the flick of long eyelashes against his cheeks as he gave Bellamy a quick once-over at his approach. 

"Well, hello," the man said at Bellamy's approach, as Bellamy came close enough to be just a little bit dangerous. One of his eyebrows arched high above his bored eyes appreciatively.

Feeling a little caught by the gaze, Bellamy ran his hand through his hair before pointing out what he came to say. “You know, this is an actual protest with a good cause.”

Bandana boy smirked, leaning his handmade sign declaring _Broccoli is Nutritious_ against his shoulder. “And? This is a cause that I believe in."

The taller boy beside him groaned, a little obnoxiously, and elbowed bandana boy in the ribs. "Don't be a twat, Murphy."

Bandana boy, evidently Murphy, shot him a quick glare. "Don't be a cockblock, Mbege. You know I've got a student-teacher fantasy."

Bellamy choked on air. 

Mbege put his head in his hands, peeking up at Murphy between his fingers. "Murphy, this is a protest about paying teachers a living wage, not a weird kinky singles night."

Murphy shrugged. "All the same to me."

"If you're suggesting that teachers get paid more and then trying to sleep with them at the same time, isn't that just kind of prostitution?" Bellamy wondered aloud, and immediately wished he hadn't as the rest of Murphy's little crew howled with laughter.

Murphy, however, didn't. Instead, a sly smirk crept up the side of his face, something less harsh and angry than before but unmistakably dangerous.

"Only if you want to be a prostitute," Murphy responded. 

If there was one thing Bellamy Blake wasn't, it was easily flustered. For a second, he decided that he wasn't Bellamy Blake, a history professor with a loving wife at home. He used that second to take a step closer to Murphy until they were practically breathing the same air. 

"How much are you paying?" he asked.

This close, he could feel Murphy's breath hitch, but before he could give an answer, the crowd around them got louder. Someone screeched about a foot from Bellamy's ear, and his right shoulder was jostled by a twig of a teenage girl sprinting away. Bellamy and Murphy turned in unison to look around, and Bellamy became aware of three things at once.

One: the cops were a lot fucking closer than they were five minutes ago.

Two: as a result of the cops proximity, the sign that the woman in the maroon tank top was swinging was about to smack the closest police officer in his big, bald, helmeted head.

Three: this shit was about to go sideways.

A brief flash of panic sparked through his system; he had a class to teach at 10 the next morning, and lord knows he can't teach a class from a jail cell. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red.

Murphy did not look bored anymore. His smile was a knife. His smile was a challenge. He looked like a spitting image (granted shorter, paler, and with greasier hair) of who Bellamy used to be. A bolt of adrenaline shot through Bellamy's veins, and he smiled back, and he feels hot and hungry and vicious, and when Murphy's pale, challenging face is smacked against a curb by a cop, pig-headed with a zip tie in his hands, ready to strap them around Murphy's wrists, he feels himself starting to surge forward.

"Get the fuck off of-" he starts, and then he, too, is face-first on the ground, and his hands are behind his back before he has time to ball them into fists.

Next to him, Murphy was kicking and fighting with the cop, like an idiot who had never been arrested before and was looking to pick up extra charges for resisting arrest. "Calm the fuck down," Bellamy growled in his direction, and despite the howling of protesters and sirens around them, Murphy immediately heard and obeyed, suddenly going stock still, allowing himself and Bellamy to be calmly escorted to the paddy wagon. He considered it as he licked at blood on his bottom lip as they rode to the station.

When they got to the station, they were swiftly crammed into a small cell with approximately every other person that Bellamy had seen at the protest. Murphy was pressed against his side, and Bellamy feels himself flexing, just a little.

He didn't know what this was about. He was a man, with a wife, who shouldn't care about what this other man thought of him. Or his body. Or anything like that.

But when the younger man snaked his fingers around Bellamy's bicep, maybe Bellamy didn't move them. 

When Murphy made a joking and flirtatious comment in his ear, maybe Bellamy laughed along. Maybe he did more than laugh along. Maybe he flirted back. Maybe, when they got jostled by a new group of people who were put in, he caught Murphy by putting his hand on the small of his back, and then he left it there. 

Clarke wasn't here. And this was nothing. It was harmless, and he was gesticulating with his left hand, ring glinting in the dim light. 

Eventually, Murphy's friend - Mbege, the tall, bald one, who had apparently run from the cops - came to pick him up. The second they were reunited outside the holding cell, Murphy reached out for a hug. 

Mbege smacked him upside the head. "Really, Murphy? After everything?"

Murphy had the good sense to look sheepish, though for what Bellamy didn't know, but he collected his personal items and winked at Bellamy on his way out.

It was about half an hour later when Octavia came to bail Bellamy out. And as funny as it was to watch her burst in, eyes bright and guns blazing, with her halfway-through-law-school authority as she berated the officers for the state of Bellamy's busted lip and bruised jaw while Lincoln laughed quietly behind her shoulder, a little pang of upset flashed its way through Bellamy's heart.

He had used his phone call to call Clarke. Clarke, who was supposed to be here with him. Clarke, who didn't have the time for the protest. Clarke, who apparently didn't have time to pick up her fucking husband from the police station.

He knew he was being self-centred. They'd been together for eight years. he couldn't expect her to be there for him all hours of the day, all the time, on everything. But his jaw was bruised, and his lip was busted, and he was exhausted and sweaty and the righteous indignation in his sister's eyes contrasted so harshly to his wife's absence that he felt it more keenly than he would have otherwise.

He was led off to collect his personal items. He grabbed his wallet, his cell phone, but stopped short when he went to grab his sign. 

In the place of _his _sign, the one he and Clarke made, was another one, bitingly familiar. 

"Broccoli is Nutritious", it declared, every bit as arrogant and douchey as its' owner. He snorted as he gingerly picked it up. He was going to tuck it under his arm when he noticed a bit of scrawl on the back. 

_In case you ever become down for that teacher-student prostitute fantasy, give me a call, _it read, followed by a phone number.

This, Bellamy thinks, is the moment he should have been better. He could throw the sign out as he left the station. He could have moved on. Instead, he puts the number in his phone. Saves the contact as "Murphy (Protest)".

It wasn't as if it was anything, after all. Murphy just seemed like a protest kind of person. Like the type of person who would do the shit with him that Clarke wouldn't. That Clarke was too uptight for. He wasn't looking to do anything with this man - he was a man, with a wife, who he loved and would never leave. It was nothing.

But Bellamy wasn't naive. He knew, objectively, that he was an attractive guy. He had noticed the attention Murphy had given him. The attention he cursed himself for, grudgingly, giving back.

So he could have not called. He could have left the number in his phone. After all, Murphy didn't have _his _number. That could have been all. That could have been it. 

But.

_ **to: Murphy (Protest)** _

_Hey, you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS SHITTY! im aware of this but like. i needed this chapter to put everyone where they need to be so the REST of the fic can be good. 
> 
> anyways. here we go galaxy here we go


	3. love ain't a three-way street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you read my one-shot "love ain't a three-way street" this is, essentially, how that scene fits into this fic. i made some minor changes (instead of clarke being pregnant, she's just using her vacation days to reconnect. i also edited out most of the violence bc. you know. a tad problematic in the wider set of this fic.) if you want to skip it you pretty much can.
> 
> -
> 
> title from "goodbye love" from rent

Murphy weaves his fingers through the older man's hair. It's curly and thick, and the gold wedding ring on the hand tangled with Murphy's other one complimented it perfectly. This never really bothered him before; he had always known Bellamy was a bit older, nearly seven years his senior, and about his marriage, and it didn't seem to matter. 

_Age __i__s just a number, _he had thought, _Marriage is just a piece of paper. __I know who he is, he knows who __I am, and will love me just the same._

It seemed naïve, looking back. Even now, only seven months down the line, he can see that he was a child to believe that love could be so black-and-white. But then again, he never had been able to tell the difference between sex and love, between being treasured and being taken advantage of. 

He wondered if Bellamy had been like that, once; if he had ever been youthful and naïve, and had loaned himself out to whatever older man would give him the time of day, as Murphy had. Does? He still doesn't know.

Bellamy is handsome; of all of Murphy's confusion about their pseudo-relationship, this remains an undeniable truth. Despite being twenty-nine, nearly thirty, his face appears younger. If he hadn't known better, if he hadn't memorized every crease and crevice of his face, Murphy could almost mistake him for a man barely twenty-three, almost Murphy's peer. Sometimes, foolishly, he wonders if that was why he had allowed herself to talk to Bellamy in the first place.

Of course, he knows this is not the truth. He knows that when Bellamy approached him at the rally, he had seen something he craved so desperately. Maybe it was latent daddy issues. Maybe he had issues with authority. But the maybes were endless, and he was grateful for whatever maybe led him to... well whatever they had now.

Bellamy's eyelids flutter open, eyelashes longer than Murphy's own opening to revealing a sea of sparkling deep brown. The effect was dulled by the bags beneath them; his wife, Clarke, had been taking days off of work to spend time with him, cutting into the time he'd usually use to grade papers and making him stay up til obscene hours to get the work done.

The mere thought of his wife makes Murphy's stomach churn. He's seen the woman in pictures on his Facebook. Clarke is younger than Bellamy only by a year or two, but, unlike him, she truly looks her age. She has the beginnings of crow's feet around her eyes, presumably from smiling, and the scrubs she wears for her job at the hospital do her very few favors.

He shook of the thought of the wife, instead focusing himself on the man in front of him. Bellamy's head is pressed against Murphy's chest, and he can't help but think that the man _belongs_ there. His dark curls look like they were made to sit against his pale chest. He wonders if they look this good next to Clarke's sun-kissed complexion. Probably not. 

He pulls herself out of his wandering thoughts as the freckle-faced man rolls off his chest, trying to sit up. Instinctively, Murphy reaches back out, trying to make him stay, but Bellamy bats his hand away. Murphy uses the opportunity to lace their fingers, and the corner of Bellamy's mouth quirks skyward, obligingly holding Murphy's hand. Something about the gesture makes Murphy's heart flutter. When Bellamy pulls his fingers away, Murphy feels the loss keenly. Abandonment anxiety at its finest. 

"Coffee?" Bellamy asks, pushing up from the bed, the boxers his sister Octavia had bought him riding low on muscular hips, and Murphy nods, smiling hazily.

Murphy had met Octavia, once, in a coffee-shop back alley while Bellamy was getting drinks. She had slapped Murphy clear across the face, asking how dare he come between her brother and his wife. Murphy had no reply at the time, but even the memory of the harsh-spirited sister reminded him of who he was and what he was doing to the man he lo- well, the man he was having sex with. 

It was the first time Murphy had convinced Bellamy to take him on a _real _date, one that didn't start and end in a hotel, late at night. It was the first time Murphy had heard anything about the wife - the ensuing fight between himself and Bellamy had been so brutal that if he was a stronger man, if he didn't crave affection so badly, he would have walked away. Instead, he listened to Bellamy plead about how Clarke was never around anymore, about how he was lonely, about how it didn't have to mean anything, and then kissed him and drank his coffee in silence.

Murphy hears Bellamy hum lightly as he made coffee, Johnny Cash floating back to where Murphy lay on the bed. He snuggles back into the covers and watches freckled biceps reach near-obscenely for coffee grounds and the filters, which Murphy had placed on the top shelf for this very reason. He'd actually collapsed mightily off the counter in the process of trying to get them up there, and his neighbor, Harper, had come over to ask if he was okay. 

Harper was the only person Murphy thought knew that Murphy was having an illicit affair with a married man, a fact she had been tipped off to when Bellamy and Murphy had fought about it, rather loudly, when Bellamy announced that they might be spending less time together because Clarke was trying to reconnect. He could tell she could still hear the echoes of _"Where was this concern for your relationship when you started fucking me__?__"_ and _"Why would I take your opinion into consideratio__n? W__e're not together, Murphy!" __w_henever she looked at him or whenever she saw Bellamy thundering down the hall to the exit, her eyebrows lifting, her nose crinkling. 

_Don't __look down on me, __McIntyre, _Murphy would think, _you go back to you married, living parents, and your sweet girlfriend, but don't you dare look down on me. _

Bellamy brought Murphy his favorite mug, a blue one Mbege had bought him, full to the brim with plain black coffee, because toxic masculinity and dragged him this low. He noted smugly that the same disgusting mix was in Bellamy's cup, so at least they were both trying to be men. 

A lonely twink and a man who can't even stay in the bed of his wife of five years, trying to be men. Murphy could nearly laugh at the thought. 

They sit in silence, fingers tangled and not looking at each other, drinking their coffee. Then Bellamy stands up, and begins to collect his clothes. Murphy jolts up. 

"Where are you going?" He asks, and Bellamy actually has the nerve to perk up. 

"I gotta run, Clarke wants to go down to the park to meet with O and Lincoln today," Bellamy tells him, as if this is okay. 

"What?" Murphy asks, pushing himself off of the pillows but not rising to his feet. 

Bellamy shoots him a sheepish glance. "Didn't I tell you about it?" He asks, in a tone that suggests he very much knows he hasn't told Murphy shit. 

Murphy shakes his head jerkily. "You said you were free today," he monotones, fixing Bellamy with an icy glare. 

Bellamy stares at his feet, and that's all the confirmation Murphy needs. He _had _been free today. But, like always, Princess Clarke had called. She had needed something. And Bellamy, his Knight, was flying away to do her bidding, leaving Murphy in the dust. 

"I'm so sick of this," Murphy informs him, and Bellamy visibly winces, "once, just fucking once, can you make me a priority?" 

Bellamy's look was so incredulous, Murphy nearly felt that he was in the wrong as Bellamy squared his shoulders. "I do make you a priority, Murphy. All the time. You have no idea." 

Murphy stands, too, squaring his own shoulders. Fine, he'll play Bellamy's game. 

"You're right, Bellamy. I have no idea," he shoots back, and Bellamy purses his lips. "I don't know about you putting me first. It's always Clarke this, Clarke that. Can you ever put her down for a goddamn second and just be with me?" 

Bellamy glowered at him, and it was that fucking face. In any other situation, Murphy would be dropping to his knees after one look at that face, but he stood his ground. They were fighting, not fucking.

"She's my wife, Murphy. I can't exactly put my marriage down for you, can I?" Bellamy asked, his voice gravelly and dangerous, and Murphy had to give him that, even if it twisted something dark and ugly in his chest.

"Yes, and we can all see how much you value your marriage, hm? Sneaking off and sleeping with me while she's at work, huh?" Murphy bites back, and the comment has the desired effect. He sees, rather than feels, as Bellamy gripped Murphy's slender shoulders in a bruising grip, lifting the smaller man clear off the ground. 

"Say it again," Bellamy dares him, and Murphy, for once, uses his sense and refrains. Instead, he levels his eyes to Bellamy's, keeping his face cautiously neutral. 

"Is this the kind of husband you are to Clarke?" He rasps, and it was as if he had struck Bellamy. The man drops him to collapse onto the bed as if he'd been burned, his face looking something close to terrified. 

"I'm-I-fuck, are you okay?" He asks, falling to his knees so they're something close to level, his hands glancing around Murphy's figure, as if silently reassuring himself that he hadn't fucked up too badly, that Murphy wasn't without repair. The cruel irony laughed in Murphy's face, but he just nodded. 

"It's not the worst that anyone's ever done," he replies bitterly, not meeting Bellamy's eyes. Bellamy knew the broad strokes of Murphy's past, and still had the nerve to put his hands on him. He wasn't exactly going to let that go down easy.

The older man hummed sadly, capturing Murphy's chin in one tanned hand, pulling Murphy's mouth to his and kissing him tenderly, cautiously and something about it almost hurt Murphy. Gentle, kind, cautious was not something he had ever been brought to understand. 

Some part of him wanted to melt into it, to let it take him over like some born-again virgin. But though he had longed for Bellamy to treat him like this since the day they met, to bring down the older man's tough façade, now was not the time, as much as he would always hope that Bellamy was the man. 

So instead of kissing him back the way he wants to, he pulls a scarred palm up the middle of the other's muscular chest, and shoves him backwards. 

"No!" He interjects, ignoring the way Bellamy's wild eyes make him feel, "no, you can't just roughhouse me and abandon me and expect me to just forgive you!" 

Bellamy shakes his head, something inherently vulnerable still in his face but his eyes hardening more by the second. "What do you want, Murphy?" He asks, and the genuine question in his voice breaks through Murphy's floodgates of emotion. 

"I want an apology, maybe? I want you to understand hat you can't just use me to get off and then run off to your perfect wife and have a whole different life!" Murphy near-shouts, rising to his feet, and Bellamy rises with him. 

"That's not fair, and you know it," the man insists, but Murphy just scoffs. He feels seven months of hurt in his chest, and Octavia's harsh slap across his face, and it feels like fury.

"Really, Bellamy?" He asks, his voice breaking in hysterical exasperation, "_That's _not fair? How about being treated like your dirty little secret, huh? How about being your shoulder to cry on whenever Clarke gets upset with you but you barely ever bothering to be here when I wake up the next morning? How about how I know all of your issues and every noise you make when we fuck but you never want to meet any of my friends, huh? How about how you won't even introduce me to your friends as 'just a friend' if you can help it? What's fair there, huh, Bellamy?" He's shouting now, and he knows Harper can hear, but fuck Harper. Judgmental bitch. 

"Please, Murphy-" Bellamy starts, but Murphy isn't listening anymore. 

"Don't you 'please, Murphy' me! I'm tired of being treated like a criminal and a handjob whore just because you can't get your shit together! You act like you have some moral high ground on me when _you're the one cheating on your wife, Bellamy!_" 

He hears Bellamy suck in a harsh breath, and he knows that he fucked up, that he went too far, but it's too late, because now he's crying and Bellamy has the nerve to stand there, looking lost. Looking angry. Processing a hundred thousand different emotions, but Murphy can't possibly care, because if he doesn't finish now he never will

"What does this even mean to you, Bellamy?" Murphy (shouted? Whispered? Asked? Demanded? Who knew anymore?). 

The silence that followed was deafening. Murphy's words cling to the air between them, trying desperately to pull the right response from Bellamy's hoarse throat. They make the air taste like desperation, like hope. 

Bellamy's eyes fall downward, looking at the green-and-red carpet as if it contained the secrets of the universe. He says "Murph..." in that soft, hurting way of his, and if Murphy wasn't so stubborn, he'd admit that he already knew he had lost.

Murphy bunches his hands in the cheap duvet, using all of the willpower he has to focus his burning eyes on the other man's forehead. 

"I-I love my wife," Bellamy says finally, resignation and pain in his voice, the same way it had that day with Octavia, the same way it did every time they had these fights. It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was all Murphy needed. 

"Get out," he whispers, and he hates the way his voice wavers. He hates the way he feels Bellamy looking at him, so he stares at where the wall meets the ceiling, trying to keep his tears in his eyes. 

"Murphy..." Murphy refuses to look, but he can feel Bellamy's eyes were fastened on him, doing that stupid puppy-dog thing that makes him want to fight for him. Makes him want to protect the older man the way no one had ever protected Murphy. It makes him want to give in. 

"I said get OUT!" Murphy shouts, eyes secure on the ceiling, the dust in that crevice growing blurry from tears. "GET OUT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT!" 

He wants Bellamy to say something. Anything. To fight him. To fight _for_ him. 

Instead he hears the familiar _click _of the door closing behind his... his what? His older lover? The man he loved? His casual fuck, with the brown eyes and curly hair and freckles and tantalizing muscles that make him feel, once again, like the gawky child who still believed that he would find someone who wouldn't abandon him? 

He collapses on his bed, sobbing in earnest. His chest is constricting, his vision blurring. His face hurts. Every inch of him is on fire. 

He feels nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gasp! you though murphamy was going somewhere? they still might be. 
> 
> elle, jen, and ariel, the only bitches reading this - love yall dearly


	4. when one of us puts down the gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you have reached the voicemail of..."
> 
> -
> 
> title from "battlefield" by lea michelle

"Hey, it's Bellamy. Sorry I missed your call, but leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!"

_"Heeeeeey big brother, fucking Roma cancelled on us for babysitting, would you be willing to watch the twins this weekend? I'll love you forever."_

_"Hey honey, can you grab tortillas from Giant on the way home? I'm making quesadillas! Que emocionada! I think that's it anyways. Raven is shaking her head no. Love you."_

_"Hey, you piece of shit, it's - no, fuck off Mbege, leave me alone, HEY-" _

_"Hey, it's Murphy. I'm hiding from Mbege. I miss you. Actually, no I don't. You're a dick, and I have a hot date on Friday. Fuck you."_

"It's Murphy. You know what do do."

_"Murphy! Man! I'm outside, get your pale ass out here. Oh, wait, here you come. Hi."_

_"Hey Murphy, I got your message. I miss you too. I'm sorry we fought, can we talk?"_

_"Hey Murphy, it's been three days. I left you messages. Are you seriously still mad? Call me back."_

_"Okay, you don't get to be mad at me for this one. I'm married. You knew that already. Can you please just call me back?"_

_"Hi John, it's Emori, from the bookshop. I found a theater playing _Zapatos Blancos_, do you still want to see it? Call me back when you can."_

"You have reached the voicemail box of Clarke Griffin. Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording, please hang up, or press 1 for more options. To leave a callback number, press pound."

_"Clarke! Honey, angel, best friend. Would you be willing to cover my shift at the clinic Sunday night? I'm supposed to go out with Monty and Jas. You know how important our bi-monthly date night is. Please? I'll love you forever. And ever. Call me back."_

_"Hey Clarke, where are you? Our reservation was for seven. I've been waiting for an hour."_

_"Hey, I'm sorry about our fight. I love you so much, I know how important your job is to you. See you soon."_

_"Hey, you said you're off on Friday, right? O said there's this awesome Spanish movie playing at the Jones Theater. Maybe this can be makeup for date night? Text me. I love you."_

To replay this message, press 1. To delete it, press 2. To hear more options, press 3. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a ~throwaway chapter~ but needed to move the plot along. also: some details in this are more important than they appear.
> 
> next up: collision on a titanic level


	5. are you so strong, or is all the weakness in me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it wasn't quite meant to be a double date. 
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title from "the weakness in me" by joan armatrading

If anyone had to be a rebound for Bellamy, Murphy's glad it's Emori. They've known each other for coming up on two years, working together at a Starbucks tucked inside a Barnes & Noble, where Murphy is best described as "that grumpy barista" and Emori is best described and "that one girl who always gives you whipped cream for your dog, whether you ask or not". He'd always known Emori had a soft spot for him; before he had a car, she would drive him home from work after they closed together so he wouldn't have to walk, and there was only so much casual teasing and hip-checking they could do behind the counter before he was forced to admit that they were flirting.

She'd also been the first to comment when he started coming in with hickeys on his neck and the first to notice when they stopped. She was the only one he confided in about his fight with Bellamy (he knew Mbege would listen if he wanted, but they didn't have that kind of friendship. They were like brothers, and Murphy would rather play Halo and drink beers with him than go into detail on his sex life). And when, after a safe waiting period of about a month, Emori asked him out, he couldn't help but say yes. 

It feels easy, walking into the movie theatre hand-in-hand with her. They're bickering a bit, playfully, about their theories about the end of the world. Emori is convinced that it'll all go up in nuclear warfare. She has a bit of a leg up on Murphy, being born with two fingers fused together due to radiation exposure in the womb. Murphy's honest opinion is that it'll all go down from climate change but honestly, he's having more fun debating with Emori about his ludicrous zombie apocalypse scenario. Emori isn't unkind or angry, per se, but he loves the rare moments when he sees her smile and laugh like this.

"You can't just say 'it looks like your brain has already been eaten' every time I call out the flaws in your plans, John!" she exclaims as they press through the glass doors of the theatre, but the less-than-subtle upturn at the corners of her mouth betrays her real feelings.

That's another thing with Emori - she's the only person he knows who calls him John. He hadn't been John since his mother died. John - and Jonathan, his full name, for that matter - is such a common name that he'd always been forced to go by 'Murphy' to allow for distinction. Even his best friend, Mbege, shares his first name, so they'd called each other by their last names since they before they knew how to spell them. But Emori, she calls him John. Like he's the only one she's ever met. Like he is the most important John she knows. 

He is about to counter her with the same stupid argument she had just advised him against when he hears a familiar, rumbling voice from a few people ahead of him in line.

"Two for _Zapatos Blancos, _please," the voice says in deep, poorly accented Spanish. He had used the same shitty accent trying to order things authentically at a tapas bar half an hour outside of town, and when Murphy had made him sing "Despacito" at karaoke night in the dive bar he and Mbege used to frequent, just grimy enough that no one that the other man knew would possibly show up, but beginning to get gentrified enough that Murphy's friends could no longer afford drinks.

As the owner of the voice turned to walk towards the concession stand, tickets in hand, Murphy got a real view brown curls, a glimpse of familiar freckled cheeks, of the blonde woman clinging to his arm.

Of course, on his first date with someone else, he would run into Bellamy fucking Blake.

Emori seems to have noticed his shift in attention, because she nudges him gently with her elbow, making Murphy's wrist just a little uncomfortable with the action due to the awkward position he had to hold her hand around her deformed fingers. He glances at where their hands are clasped together, and then up to her face, her eyes wide and inquisitive. He forces a deep breath into his lungs. 

"Just excited for the movie is all," he tells her, an untrue answer to her unspoken question.

She nods, accepting his lie, and then turns in the direction of the ticket seller, only one person ahead of them in line. Like many times before, when Murphy had told her white lies about Bellamy, he wonders if she really believes him. Her face has a devilish quality to it, eyes bright in a blinding way where unless she leaves a clue on her face, you can never quite tell what's behind them. 

They step forward to the teller, and before he can stop her, she's asking for two tickets to _Zapatos Blancos, _wallet in hand. He makes a weak attempt at a protest before she fixes him with another one of her blinding stares. He's been complaining about his deteriorating bank account for nearly a month, since the day his landlord hiked his rent after he put his fist through his bedroom wall after his sort-of-breakup with Bellamy.

"You'll get me back on the next one," she offers, almost a concession but phrased like an order, and a rush of gratitude comes over him.

They make meaningless small talk as they walk towards their theater - apparently, Emori's roommate is trying studying for her master's degree in translation studies, so their shared TV in the living area has been playing Spanish and French movies and TV for nearly a month straight. Though the other girl had refused to turn on subtitles, Emori had gathered that this director was actually quite good, which made Murphy feel less guilty about taking her to see a Spanish movie on one of her few nights of reprieve from the aforementioned roommate. He told her about working at a café downtown called Little Havana in his hometown, and how there was a group of Cuban grandmothers who would come in on every odd Thursday, who were fairly loud and didn't speak a lot of English but always tipped him the best because he wasn't vaguely racist like the rest of the staff. He'd spent months trying to learn basic phrases in Spanish to at least make communication easier, but the café went out of business before he got the chance to test his skills.

She laughs at that. "I'd never pinned you down as that kind of person," she teases lightly, her blinding stare sparkling and amused, and though he doesn't quite know what she means, he laughs anyway.

The theater, unsurprisingly, is mostly empty- despite it being a Friday night, not many people in their town would really bother taking their time out to watch a movie with subtitles. Emori seems thrilled that the seats in the middle of the back row are open, and it's amusing to watch Emori, the girl who is never impressed by anything, get excited over something as trivial as seats in a movie theater. The combination of the near-vacant theater and their position in the back meant that they could see every person who walked in as they floundered, looking absently about the theater for which of the universally empty seats they wanted. It's a blessing and a curse: it's a perfect source of people-watching - something he had Emori had perfected to a near-science from a little over a year of poking fun at the nerdy types who came through their work - but on the flip side, he saw the second that Bellamy walked in the theater and, more importantly, the moment he spotted Murphy.

Bellamy had his arm laid casually across his wife's shoulders, and it's the first time Murphy's ever seen her in person. Her hair has been cut short since the last picture he'd seen, and he notes despite himself that it looks much better on her than her dead ends had. Besides that, the only difference between the woman gazing unsuspectingly around the theater and the one on Bellamy's Facebook (and the wedding photo that he keeps in his wallet) is the deep circles underneath her eyes from all her shifts at the hospital.

He hates that he knows why she has undereye circles. He hates that he knows that much about her. Just like he hates the way she laughs at something her husband said, leading him up the stairs until they are two rows ahead of Murphy, and Bellamy looks up and freezes. 

For a moment, Murphy can't breathe, and they sit there, staring at each other. Then Bellamy shakes his head - seemingly absentminded, as if he'd gotten lost in thought, though Murphy's been in trouble with the law enough to know a warning when he sees one - before he turns back to Clarke and sits next to her. He watches as Bellamy snakes a hand out and steals a piece of popcorn halfway up to her mouth. She laughs, a faux-indignant shriek, and even with her back to him, Murphy can almost sense the pleased, flirtatious smile that must be on her face.

Emori snorts beside him, drawing Murphy out of his shameless staring. "They are _disgustingly _domestic," she comments, and Murphy whips his head over to look at her in shock, but she's not looking at him. Her head is tilted slightly towards him, conspirationally observant, and it takes him another few moments to register that she's still simply people-watching, as they had been before Bellamy and Clarke came in. She has no idea who she was looking at.

He forces out a soft laugh. It gets caught in his throat. "Yeah," he agrees, "but not as disgusting as them." He gestures at the pair of teenagers practically dry-humping in the first row of seats. 

Emori's nose wrinkles disapprovingly, sufficiently distracted. "They couldn't even wait until they turned the lights off?" she criticizes, and Murphy allows himself to be pulled back into the easy flow of their banter as if there isn't a ticking time bomb sitting two rows ahead of them.

It goes well until around an hour after the movie starts. The lights have gone down, and Emori's posture has relaxed from where she had been nearly been leaning over the arm of her seat, her shoulder pressed against Murphy's, their temples nearly touching. Murphy is doing his very best to keep his eyes trained on the screen (it's not that hard - though he likes to pretend he's overcome his childhood struggles with dyslexia, the subtitles are changing so fast, it's hard for his mind to keep track, and he can tell he's lost the plot more than once in his failure to keep up), but he can feel someone staring at him.

He doesn't want to look. After all, he's here. On a date. Where the entire point was not to get mixed up with Bellamy again. But when he sneaks a quick glance in Bellamy's direction, the burning of his stare is too harsh and powerful to look away from. He finds himself ignoring the movie in favor of staring back at Bellamy. In the dark of the theater, he can't make out the older man's face completely, and something about being unable to read his expression sets Murphy on edge. It feels dangerous. 

Not taking his eyes off of Murphy, Bellamy extends his arm around his wife, tugging gently. She lays her head on his shoulder, peacefully oblivious, and Bellamy drops a kiss on the top of her perfectly parted hair. Murphy watches, something in his chest inexplicably tight, as she nuzzles against his shoulder. Despite the tenderness of the action, Bellamy’s face, illuminated by the bright lighting of the movie’s change in scenery, is a challenge.

_I am here with her, _it says. _What are you going to do about it?_

Murphy may be a liar, and a cheat, and a hundred other things, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

He gives the movie a moment to catch a lull in the dialogue (the woman onscreen had either been talking about quitting her job or leaving her girlfriend, Murphy isn’t quite sure of the context), before taking a cue from the teenagers he and Emori had observed before the movie started, capturing the side of her face with one calloused hand, pulling her mouth to meet his.

It feels juvenile, making out in the back of a movie theater like a pair of horny highschoolers, but as Emori’s hands snake through his hair, his eyes fly open, seeking out Bellamy’s in the dark of the theater. Their gazes meet, and Murphy can’t help but feel the corners of his mouth turn skyward at the look on the older man’s face. Between the feeling of soft, strawberry-chapstick lips against his and the intensity of Bellamy’s gaze, the atmosphere in the theater is electric.

_Checkmate, Blake._

Emori is the first to pull back as the plot of the film picks back up, but he can hear the soft smile in her voice as she chides him, “Focus on the movie, you’re probably missing the best part.”

_I’m trying, _he doesn’t say, as much as he wants to. Instead, he just looks obediently forward. When he sneaks a glance at Bellamy, the older man has turned away.

Though Murphy tries to focus after that, he finds himself sneaking glances in the man’s direction, his staring unreturned until the credits roll.

Bellamy seeks Murphy's gaze once more as he gets up, shuffling awkwardly and unhelpfully on his feet while Clarke collects the food trash around their seat. When she crouches down to collect the popcorn container from the ground, Bellamy jerks his head towards the door, an obvious "come with me" gesture that Murphy can't easily ignore, even if he wanted to. He excuses himself from Emori, eyes tracking Bellamy as he throws one last meaningful glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the single-stalled men's restroom, correctly assuming that Murphy would follow.

Murphy hesitates for just a moment, hand hovering over the door handle. It would be well within his rights to just leave - after all, he hadn't meant to see Bellamy, and Bellamy hadn't meant to see him, and they were here for two separate reasons and they didn't have to collide.

He opens the door regardless, slipping in and locking it behind him, and looks up to see Bellamy leaning against the sink, posture relaxed in a way that doesn't seem fitting to the situation.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Bellamy says, and there's no overt accusation in his tone, but Murphy can almost feel it. It seems, on Bellamy's tongue, more like hope. His eyes are bonfires, bright and hot.

“This... I didn't... I wouldn't have come," Murphy says, and it's not quite an answer, not quite a defense. He is hovering on some middle ground that he hopes Bellamy understands. "If I knew you were going to be here, I wouldn’t have come."

They stare at each other for an endless minute, and the air is hot and overwhelming. Murphy is acutely aware of the space between them, of the weird off-green colour of the tile floor, of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, but he can't look at any of those things. Not when Bellamy is looking at him like that. Not when he had never planned to see Bellamy look at him like that again.

He doesn't see Bellamy rush towards him as much as he feels it, brain too caught up in the feeling of Bellamy grasping him by the back of the head and crushing their mouths together to process the visuals of the movement, preoccupied in the way that Bellamy is backing him up and caging him in, so that for a second, his senses override, and he doesn't think about seeing Bellamy move, or the what they're doing, or what any of this means beyond the feeling of hands in his hair and breath leaving his lungs.

He wraps his arms around Bellamy's neck, almost on instinct, and allows himself to be pushed back until he feels the cool tile of the bathroom wall through his cotton shirt. He feels Bellamy sliding one of his legs between Murphy's knees, and Murphy whines appropriately, a breathy sound he knows Bellamy loves. And it's so easy, so simple - as one of Bellamy's hands reaches behind him to grasp a handful of his ass, it feels like he's falling into a rhythm. He tilts his head back shamelessly, trying to remember how to breathe, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors above the sink.

He's not sure why it strikes him so much - it's not like he's never done this before, or like he's suddenly too good or high and mighty to make out with an attractive man in a bathroom. He's an adult, after all- he's spent more than enough time being taken to pieces in the bathrooms at clubs and bars. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

Except, he promised. He kicked Bellamy out, a month ago, and he promised himself that he wouldn't be this again. There was nothing shameful about sex - or, at the very least, kissing in a move theater bathroom- except Bellamy had come to this theater with his wife. A wife who loved him. Who smiled at him in the theater like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, whose head nestled against the older man’s shoulder with a familiarity that only came with trust, with love, with history. Who Murphy suddenly felt guilty for trying to steal him from. Who Bellamy had made _very clear_ on that afternoon, barely a month ago, that he would love more than he could ever love Murphy.

So - as much as he wants to go easily, to submit when Bellamy grasps at his jaw with soft fingertips to guide him back into a kiss, he resists. He turns his head away, places a single hand on the center of Bellamy's (broad, tantalizing, god maybe this isn't so bad after all) chest, and pushes back. It isn't hard or demanding, or even enough force to really push Bellamy away if he didn’t want to go, and for an impossible moment, Murphy is afraid that Bellamy won't budge. And he knows he isn't strong enough to do this for a third time.

But Bellamy takes a bewildered step back, his face an open question that his mouth hasn't caught up to yet.

Murphy doesn't let it get the chance.

“We can’t," he says, still vaguely breathless, and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes trained on Bellamy's, to not show any weakness in them, any of his silent, internal pleading. "I told you. We can’t.”

Bellamy's eyes search Murphy's face, and Murphy isn't sure what he's hoping to find there, but from the sadness in them, he doesn't. He huffs, then turns on his heel. Murphy turns to watch the sole of his shoe as it disappears behind the closing door.

He takes several moments to breathe. _Holy shit, I can't believe I just did that. _

The idea of sinking onto the (probably disgusting and sticky) bathroom floor to process what he just did for the rest of his naturally occurring life is tempting, but he knows he can't. He knows Emori is waiting outside. Emori, with the smiling eyes, who calls him "John" like it never occurred to her to say anything else. Emori, who would never to hurt him. Emori, who would never try to keep him hidden and trapped because she understands how much his freedom means to him, what it had cost him to achieve. Who doesn't even have the muscles to hold him down, to cage him in, to pull on his hair until the only strangled sound he could make was her name-

And yet, when he emerges from the bathroom, it isn't her smiling eyes he seeks out. He watches as Bellamy rejoins Clarke, clutching her hand like it means something to him. He feels something swell, ugly and vicious, in his chest. But as his gaze follows their intertwined hands up to their bodies, he notices that she is looking not at her husband, but at _him_. There is something unknowable on her face, and he feels naked under her gaze. But then that unnerving look is gone, and her eyes are on her husband, so quickly that he momentarily wonders if he really saw something at all.

And then Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy Blake are walking out the glass doors and into the night, and as he walks towards where Emori is making idle conversation with the ticket seller Murphy hopes, for his own sake, that it's the last he sees of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while! sorry this chapter took forever, i sort of hate it and didn't want to write it. i had hella writers block on the middle part. the next one is more than halfway done already, though, so it should be speedier. and less shitty.
> 
> i also made a spotify playlist if anyone is interested. the songs are in no particular order but you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ocj4N05mOM7pQ8FlAVJ68?si=AeLvyCXtS0Sxt5NZK-lE7w).
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are my best friend, or you can come chat to me on twitter @morlyamas!


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